Turn Out the Light
by fairwinds09
Summary: Gibbs is working on his boat in the basement when a song on the radio brings back memories of Kate.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: None of the NCIS characters are mine; if you want one, go talk to Donald P. Bellisario. The song isn't mine either--it belongs to Don Williams.

Rating: K+ (I guess)

Summary: Gibbs is working on his boat in the basement when a song on the radio brings back memories of Kate.

Author's Note: In case you happen to be confused, Gibbs is having flashbacks to when he and Kate were together. Post-Twilight.

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It's dark in the basement, the air hot and heavy in the dog-days of August. The only light is from a bare bulb hanging in one corner over a battered desk. There's a shelf over the desk, covered with a scatter of hand tools and stray nails. On one end sits a half-empty bottle of bourbon. Beside it is a stained and ancient coffee mug.

The floor is covered with sawdust and wood shavings, their scent pungent in the thickness of the air. A wood plane lies half-forgotten amid the clutter, its edge worn down from long hours of use. The light from the bare bulb barely reaches the ribs of the boat that occupies the center of the room. In the shadows it looks like some long-dead prehistoric creature, vulnerable and helplessly exposed.

The door at the top of the steps opens and heavy footfalls sound on the worn boards. The man who comes down the stairs looks tired, drained, empty. Yet as he moves into the small circle of light cast by the single bulb, the glint in his eyes becomes glaringly apparent. The slump of his shoulders, the harsh furrow of his eyebrows, the hard line of his mouth, all mark a man who is moving by rote, too exhausted to do anything else. But his eyes—they are feverish, tortured, wild with a pain too deep to surface.

He moves slowly over to the shelf and the bottle of bourbon, pulls off the top and pours a slug into the dusty mug. Staring off into the darkness, he raises the cup to his lips and takes a long swallow, not even flinching at the swift burn of the liquor. Then he reaches behind him in an automatic gesture and switches on the little radio that sits on a corner of the desk, lets the music pour out into the stillness of the musty room.

_He still remembers the first time he ever turned on a radio down here. She was with him in the basement, only a few days after they became lovers. He still couldn't believe that she was there, beside him, that she __**wanted**__ to be with him. He couldn't believe the lightness in his chest, the idiotic smile that threatened to break through every time he saw her puttering around among his tools. He really couldn't yet believe the feeling that lurked at the edges of his consciousness, tantalizingly close and yet still so dim…something like—happiness. _

_She had taken a square of sandpaper and was rubbing it slowly over the edge of a rib, her movements lazy and relaxed. He just stood there for a moment, watching her work, enjoying the sight of her in old jeans and an even older T-shirt, her dark hair pulled up in a messy ponytail. She felt his gaze on her and turned her head, looking at him over the curve of her shoulder. _

"_What are you looking at, Gibbs?" she asked softly, teasingly. She still called him Gibbs most of the time—out of habit, he supposed. Only when she was very intense or very serious did she call him Jethro. He rather liked this particular little quirk, actually. On her lips, it just seemed natural. _

_He roused himself from his daydream and let his habitual smirk curve his lips slightly. _

"_What do you think I'm lookin' at?" he asked cockily, eyes twinkling at her in the dim light. _

_He caught the tail end of her smile before she turned around again, rubbing the sandpaper against the wood again as the rasp of friction filled the room. After a moment, she spoke again without looking at him. _

"_You need some music in here, Gibbs. This place is as quiet as the grave."_

_One eyebrow went up in a silent question. _

"_You want __**music**__ in here?"_

_She turned around and planted her feet, the light of challenge in her eyes. _

"_It'll be good for you, Gibbs. Cheer you up a little, put a smile on your face. Music is supposed to raise endorphins, you know."_

_He gave her the look that he usually reserved for DiNozzo when he was doing something particularly stupid, and then one corner of his mouth started to quirk upwards involuntarily. _

"_I'm thinkin' that something else is raised around here, and it's not endorphins."_

_She shot him a glance through her lashes, a look at once suspicious and excited. _

"_Is that all you ever think about?" she asked primly, trying to hide the sudden glint in her eyes. _

"_Did I ever show you why the scent of sawdust is sexy?" he asked, grinning as he moved toward her, a lecherous gleam in his eyes as she backed away towards the boat. _

"_No…no, you didn't. And I…you didn't answer the question."_

_Her back hit the ribs of the boat as his arms caged her in, his head bent low over hers as he planted a string of soft kisses from the base of her neck to her jawline. She shivered as his lips traveled over her cheekbones, stopped briefly on her forehead, toyed teasingly with her ear. And then she turned her head and met him with a heady kiss of her own, their mouths melding together as the heat between them rose to the boiling point. Suddenly he broke free, looking down at her with inscrutable blue eyes. _

"_You still want an answer to that question?" he asked smugly. She looked up, eyes dark and dilated with desire, her lips still damp from his kiss. _

"_What question?" she murmured, and hooking a hand around the back of his neck, pulled him back to her eager mouth. _

_The next time she came down to his basement, there was a radio sitting in the middle of the boat's frame, the knob turned to her favorite station. And he thought the silence well worth breaking for the sake of that single delighted smile. _


	2. Chapter 2

There is no smile on his face now. As he sets the mug down on the cluttered desk and picks up a square of sandpaper, his face looks like it's carved out of granite. He runs a thumb over the paper's surface, hardly noticing the rasp of calluses against the rough material. Seemingly lost in thought, he stands there for a moment, motionless except for the mechanical movement of his thumb. He shakes his head once, as if to dispel an unwanted memory, and moves over to his boat, places the sandpaper against one of the ribs. Slowly, almost painfully, he begins to rub along the grain, listening to the harsh grind of paper against wood.

But against his will, almost as an involuntary reaction, his foot begins to tap along to the song that is playing, not on the radio but in his mind.

_She came down the stairs slowly, her heels dangling from one hand, tiredness etched on her face. It had been a long week, and a difficult case. They were both exhausted from too much work and too little sleep, and the weekend couldn't have come fast enough. _

_He looked up at her, his lips bowing up before he thought about it. She looked so pretty in her tidy little suit, the dark jacket and skirt hugging her curves in a stark contrast to the crisp professionalism of her starched white blouse. After a full day in the office, both were a little wrinkled, the skirt creased where she'd sat down, the jacket's sleeves showing where she'd pushed them up to free her hands. In an odd sort of way, he liked the wrinkles, visual reminders of the little glances he'd snuck at her throughout the day, the little memories he'd stored away in the back of his mind._

_She smiled back at him before her brows creased and she stopped at the bottom of the stairs, staring at him in bemusement. _

"_You listen to __**country**__, Gibbs?" her voice slid up the scale in astonishment. _

_He turned away to hide his grin; he'd forgotten how little she really knew about him, how many mysteries she had yet to solve. It amused him—and yes, comforted him—to know that he could enlighten her as slowly or as quickly as he liked. She'd still be there. And each new discovery, each shared moment, brought them a step closer. It was a good thing to know. _

_She was still standing at the base of the stairs, still staring at him in bewilderment. He turned back and raised one eyebrow at her, his eyes holding the smile that he kept religiously from his lips. _

"_Does that surprise you, Agent Todd?"_

_She blinked twice as if to clear her head, the puzzled frown still etched between her brows. _

"_I'm a profiler, Gibbs. I'm supposed to know what kind of music people are likely to listen to. And I never pegged you for a…" She stopped, trying to place the singer in her head. _

"_Don Morris fan?" he supplied helpfully. "I used to listen to it when I was a teenager."_

_She tilted her head to one side and smiled. "Did you?" she asked quietly. _

_He let the smile come, watched her mouth begin to curve in response as he put down the tool in his hand and stepped towards her. _

"_Used to dance to this song," he told her, his eyes distant for a moment as he went back in time to high school parties, hot summer nights, long drives on deserted country roads. Then he looked at her again and held out a hand. _

_She shook her head hesitantly, unsure of how to react. _

"_I've never danced to country before, Gibbs," she said doubtfully. "Are you sure…"_

"_Come here," he said, his voice soft and gravelly, laced with a weighty tenderness. "I'll show you."_

_She moved into his arms, one hand on his shoulder, the other clasped closely in his. One big hand moved to the curve of her waist as he fitted her flush against him. She sighed faintly at the contact, the tense muscles she'd had all week relaxing in his embrace. Slowly they began to sway together in time to the beat of the music. For the first time, she listened to the words as the singer's whisky-soaked baritone floated out into the darkness. _

"_I've been lonesome / I've been empty_

_I've got an achin' / Way down inside_

_I need someone / Someone to hold me_

_Pull down the shade / Turn out the light_

_And love me tonight."_

_Somehow it fit the moment, fit the mood. She sighed again as she nestled her head into the crook of his shoulder, rubbing her cheek against the fabric of his shirt. His hand slid around to the small of her back, his thumb stroking her through her jacket. And as he laid his cheek against her hair and drew in the scent of her, the music played on. _


	3. Chapter 3

Well...thanks so much for all the great reviews!! They're so encouraging...especially since this is my first fanfic and I was a little nervous about publishing it in the first place. Here's the next chapter...hope you enjoy!!

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He turns from the rib he's sanding, dropping the square of sandpaper to the floor to lie forgotten among the wood shavings. Moving like an old, old man, he turns once again to the bottle sitting on the shelf above his desk, pours himself another hit of the stuff. Once again he tosses it down as if it were water, doesn't even gasp as it slides like fire down his throat. The radio is still playing, a song he doesn't recognize with a slow rhythm and lyrics about love and longing and two heartbeats in the night.

He looks down at the floor, scuffs his foot around in the debris, stopping when its hits the plane that he'd left there. He stoops to pick it up, wincing as he straightens. Unbidden, one hand flies to his lower back. He yanks it away as soon as he realizes what he's done, but can't stop the pain as the muscles refuse to unknot. He huffs out a short, heavy breath and leans back against the desk, looking down at the plane he holds in one hand.

_She used to tease him all the time about how tense he was, how tight the muscles in his back and shoulders were. Sometimes she'd sit beside him on the couch as they watched the news and give him a backrub, kneading the hard muscles with her small, capable hands. He pointed out to her on multiple occasions that if one of them was to give backrubs, it should logically be him. But he enjoyed the feel of her hands on him so much that he never protested too stringently. _

_Sometimes she tried other ways of loosening him up. One night she made dinner when they got home, an Italian recipe that she'd conned from an old friend from her Secret Service days. He couldn't help but laugh when she mused aloud that when she'd joined the Secret Service she'd expected to come out with a few scars and some war stories, not instructions for chicken cannelloni. And it didn't hurt that she looked so damn cute with a towel tied around her waist in lieu of an apron and her hair bundled into a messy bun on the back of her neck. He hadn't been able to resist the temptation to brush away the stray curls and press a kiss to the exposed skin as one hand stole around her waist and the other covered hers over the wooden spoon she was stirring with. _

_She'd melted for a moment, then shoved him away with a pseudo-brusque order to set the table. He had to admit that he was a sucker for that no-nonsense tone of hers—and he didn't mind that she was the one giving the orders for once. Here he didn't have to think about the relations between boss and agent, between commander and subordinate. Here he was simply a man with a good dinner simmering on the stove and a beautiful woman to boss him around in his own kitchen. It suited him just fine. _

_They'd eaten the cannelloni, which didn't taste like anything that would come out of a Secret Service cookbook, and cleaned the kitchen together. He washed, she dried. Then she kicked him out with the information that she needed some space to make dessert, and he took up entirely too much room. She'd bring some down to the basement when it was done, she said. _

_He went downstairs chuckling softly. He'd been kicked out of places before—three ex-wives tended to make a man familiar with that particular experience. But he'd never been kicked out with the expectation of something rich and chocolaty to come. Whistling under his breath, he picked up a hammer and slid three nails between his teeth. It wouldn't hurt to get some work done while he waited. _

_In precisely half an hour, he heard the door swing open and smelled something that made his mouth water. He turned and looked up to see her coming down the stairs, cheeks flushed and a dab of flour on her chin. She had a tray of something in her hands and a smile that made her dimples wink. Slowly he took the nails out of his mouth and set the hammer down, watching her closely. _

_She set the tray down on the old slat-backed chair in front of his desk, then kicked off the deck shoes she was wearing and looked around at him, a bright and mischievous gleam in her eye. He knew something was going on in that head of hers, but hadn't the faintest idea what. _

_She crossed over to him, treading barefoot over the dusty floor, and plucked the nails out of his hand, dumping them on the shelf above her head. Slowly she traced her fingers over the neckline of his cotton undershirt before clamping both hands possessively over his shoulders. _

"_Got something better than nails for you to eat," she murmured suggestively, her voice a silky purr with hot, wicked undertones gliding beneath. _

"_Oh, yeah?" he murmured back, his hands sliding around to her hips and pulling her a little closer. She caught her bottom lip between her teeth and shot him a glance through thick lashes. _

"_Something sweet…rich…sinfully good…" she continued on a breathy note, then leaned in close to tantalize him with her lips right next to his ear. "But be careful," she warned huskily, "'cause it's really, really…hot."_

_He grabbed her at that, hauling her up next to him with the full expectation of taking everything she'd just promised him and then some. What he hadn't expected was her response. Hoisting herself up with her hands on his shoulders, she wrapped both legs around his waist and caught his mouth in a kiss that threatened to take him over the edge between reason and pure crazy lust. When she finally let him go, they were both breathing hard, her hands tangled in his hair, his arms wrapped securely around her torso. She opened her eyes, took one look at his face, tilted her head back and laughed, loud and long and deep. Looking back down at him, she trailed a finger over his flushed cheek and smiled in mingled tenderness and amusement. _

"_So was that better than eating nails?" she teased, unable to keep the triumph from her voice. _

_His eyes lit, blue fire scorching over her skin as he met her laughing gaze. _

"_Oh, yeah," he said again, and pulled her back down to him for another kiss. _

_They didn't get to dessert for a few hours, but neither seemed to care. And as they sat under the upside-down hull of his boat and fed each other gooey chocolate squares, the song playing on the radio somehow seemed to stick in the back of his mind. _

"_I need you so now / Come on, let's go now_

_Kick off your shoes / Turn out the light_

_And love me tonight."_


	4. Chapter 4

Since the reviews were so nice and all, I decided to go ahead and post the last chapter. It's a little more intense than those previous, but when is it NOT intense between Gibbs and Kate? Anyway, hope you enjoy. :)

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He stands motionless, holding the plane in a grip so tight it hurts. Slowly he turns his attention to it, to the dull edge and dusty handle. He reaches behind him for an old rag, worn and dirty from years of use. He wipes the dust off, rubs at the blade, and throws the rag back on the desk, not caring where it lands. From the debris on top he unearths a file and sits down in the chair, the plane tilted away from him as he works. He files carefully, meticulously, with the deliberation of a man who is used to taking good care of his tools.

When the edge is sharp and gleaming, he sets down the file and steps toward the boat, staring at it as if he's never seen it before. He thinks about another slug of bourbon, but decides that he's got the whole night to get drunk and he might as well do something with his hands while he's still reasonably sober. And so he moves down to a spot where the wood is still rough and unworked, sets the plane against it, and begins to shave off the detritus with a practiced hand. Little curls of wood land at his feet, get caught on the fabric of his jeans. He doesn't notice. All he sees is the slide of metal against wood, the play of shine and shadow in the yellow light. And in the depths of his mind he hears a song.

_In their line of work, there would always be those cases. The cases that made you wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, the ones that haunted your dreams and flashed behind your eyes when you awoke. The cases that could be solved but never settled, the ones you would remember until your dying day. _

_He'd had cases like that before, would have them again. It was part of the job. But this one was particularly bad—a little girl, raped and murdered by a crazed pedophile, her small body terribly bruised and mangled. The bastard had left a stuffed toy lying beside her, a soft white rabbit with a little pink bow around its neck. Somehow that was the one thing that pushed him over the edge, put the grinding nausea in his stomach. He'd watched as Ducky examined her, watched as they zipped her into the impersonal black body bag and carried her out to the truck. And had vowed that he'd find the man who did this and make him wish he was dead before Jethro Gibbs was done with him. _

_They'd found him. In the course of two endless days they'd tracked him down, found him hiding in plain sight. He'd almost captured another little girl, almost started the nightmare over again. They stopped him just in time. But it still burns, down deep in his gut, that the bastard was so damn confident, so sure that his position as a senator's aide would keep him safe, that he was staying under his own name in a D.C. hotel. That he was eating caviar and drinking champagne while he tortured an innocent child. That he would have done it again without a second thought, certain that he was untouchable. And even though the bastard's behind bars now, will spend the rest of his miserable life behind bars, the sickness still swirls in his stomach every time he thinks of that little girl's battered face. _

_He knows she feels the same, that her heart broke too at the sight of that pathetic little body. He saw the pain in her eyes, the burning rage at the monster who did this. But during the investigation he didn't have time, didn't have the strength, to talk to her about it. For two days they've been nothing more than agent and boss, just members of the same team. It's the first time they've had a case like this since the two of them have been together, and now that it's solved and his brain can move past the urgency of evidence and leads and deduction, it starts to worry him. _

_Will she be angry that he shut down emotionally during this case? Did she expect him to still be her lover as well as her boss? Does she feel that he let her down, that she needed him to help her deal with the pain and the anger and the grief and he wasn't there? There are too many questions running through his mind as he pulls into his driveway and swings open the car door. And her silence isn't helping answer any of them. He's been on the receiving end of the silent treatment more times than he can count. He can't remember a single time when it turned out well. _

_She opens her own door and steps out, walking around the side of the car to join him. They walk together towards the door, but she doesn't touch him and she still doesn't say a word. He doesn't dare make the first move, isn't even sure he can. Somehow he feels that whatever is between them is so fragile right now that it could break at a single whisper. And so he too is silent as they climb the steps and cross the porch to his front door. _

_He digs out his keys, lets them both in, releases a soft sigh as he looks out at the moonlit lawn before turning to close the door. He reaches out a hand for the hall light when suddenly he feels her hand grab his, forcing it away from the switch. Startled, he doesn't make a move in protest when she takes him by the shoulders and pulls him away from the door. Moving assuredly in the dark, she shuts the door, locks it, and turns back to him. _

_He can barely see her in the faint light from the narrow windows on either side of his door. But somehow he senses her determination, her purpose as she moves toward him. He knows that normally he should be the one doing this, he should be the one reaching out to comfort her. But he can't make himself move, can't take control of the situation the way he wants to, the way he should. He just stands there, confused and heartsick and with a mind-numbing ache pounding behind his eyes. _

_Then he forgets all about what he should be doing as he finally gets a glimpse of her face. Most of it is in shadow, but the light plays across her eyes and he nearly gasps at the depth of pain he sees there. He doesn't have long to think about it, though. She steps close, so close he can smell her perfume and the shampoo she uses, so close that he can feel her breath against his skin. She reaches up and locks both arms around his neck, brings her body flush against his. She's so tiny she has to stretch to do it, but nevertheless she pushes up on her toes and brushes her lips against his jaw. _

_He jolts at the sudden sensation, at the feel of her against him, her scent in his nose, her warmth melting the coldness he's felt for two interminable days. Suddenly something in him breaks, something wild and dark and dangerous. He clamps both arms around her, nearly driving the breath out of her in the process, slides one hand up to hold her head in place, and takes her mouth in something far too intense to be called a kiss. It's harsh, ruthless, almost brutal, and if his brain were functioning he'd realize that he's holding her too tight, that his hand in her hair has tightened into a fist. She doesn't protest, though, doesn't pull away in shock or anger. And as his mouth continues to plunder hers, as his hands roam roughly over her body, leaving marks that will be bruises in the morning, her arms never loosen their hold. _

_He doesn't know how long he's been standing there, brutalizing the woman he loves, when he finally comes to his senses. It hits his brain like an electric shock, and suddenly he drops his hands, pushes her away from him as he pants for breath and a return to sanity. He notices that she's panting too, though he can't tell whether it's from fear or desire or a strange mixture of both. Gradually he begins to remember what he was doing seconds ago, the way he exploited her body, the roughness of his hands and the fury of his lips. Sick, ashamed, he turns away from her, plants his fists on the wall and hangs his head. He's burned his bridges for certain this time. There is no excuse for this, no reasoning that can smooth over what he's just done. He cannot blame her if she walks out that door and never comes back. _

_And so he is shocked beyond belief when he feels her hands on his arms, tugging him away from the wall to face her. He can't meet her eyes, doesn't want to see what his mindless need has done to her. But her warm hand reaches out to cup his cheek and forces him to look at her, see her as she really is. He can't turn away again, can't move as he realizes what she's telling him without speaking a single word. Suddenly he understands what she's saying, that her need is as great as his, her pain as terrible. That after two days of facing unimaginable evil, together they can make something good and right. That this has nothing to do with lust or desire and everything to do with the overwhelming need to hold on to someone until the raw memories begin to fade. That she knows the maelstrom of emotions churning within him because she feels it too. And that neither of them will have to be alone tonight. _

_He takes her in his arms again, not gently, not tenderly, not as he should. Their need for each other is too great, too fierce, too desperate to let them take the time to be kind. But this time he realizes that it is a shared ferocity, that she needs him every bit as much as he needs her. And the knowledge soothes him somehow, is the first step to healing the wounds that, at the moment, are still raw in the depths of his soul. He doesn't kiss her, doesn't explore her body with questing hands and a fire in his gut. As she wraps her arms around his neck once again, he simply holds her close, buries his face in her hair. They stand there for a long moment, emotions running perilously close to the surface, before she sighs once, long and deep, and breaks away._

_He's not afraid now, doesn't question whether this is some form of carefully devised punishment calculated to torment him for all the things he's done wrong tonight. He just stands there, waits until she holds out a hand, her eyes unreadable in the darkness. He takes it, wraps his fingers around hers, lets her lead him down the hallway and up the stairs to the bedroom at the top. He is silent as they undress each other, as they fall to the bed, as they rediscover the comfort of each other's bodies in the encompassing darkness. _

_And as the sensations spiral downwards, as the feelings swirl in a maelstrom of grief and need and desperation, he loses himself in her…drowns in the silence and the darkness and the understanding in her eyes, until he no longer remembers what drove him here and only knows the depths of this bottomless passion. _

_And as the storm quiets, as her arms lock around him and his lips bury themselves in her hair, he could swear he hears the echoes of a song drifting through the quiet house. _

"_Don't think about tomorrow / It don't matter anymore_

_We can turn the key / And lock the world outside the door_

_I need you so now / Come on, let go now_

_Kick off your shoes / Turn out the light _

_And love me tonight."_

The light still sheds a small circle of yellow light in the darkness of the basement. It glints off the bottle of bourbon on the corner of the cluttered desk, bounces off the liquid in the bottom of the coffee mug beside it. It shines on the edge of a newly sharpened plane, glistens on the surface of smooth, silky wood.

But it cannot reach the eyes of the man standing by the skeleton of a boat, tool dangling forgotten from one hand, forehead propped on the arm he rests against the wood. His breathing is harsh and choppy in the small room, almost overriding the tinny music that still drifts out of the radio in the corner. But when he finally raises his head and looks over in the direction of the sound, his cheeks are dry, his eyes burning.

He drops the plane he sharpened with such care earlier that night into the shavings at his feet, moves over to the desk with lurching steps. He doesn't touch the bottle or the mug beside it, doesn't even seem to notice that they're there. Instead he reaches over to the radio, his fingers trembling, and slowly turns the knob until the music fades, until there's a faint, protesting squawk, and then…silence.

He braces both hands on the desk, bent over as if he's trying to catch his breath after a long run. He lets his head hang between his arms, allows his eyes to drift shut for a brief moment. Then he raises himself with a tangible effort, grunting as the weight shifts onto aching joints, and walks over to the stairs. He pauses for a moment, one hand resting on the rough slat that serves as a banister. He doesn't look over his shoulder, though, doesn't turn back. Then slowly, painfully, he climbs the stairs until he stands before the blank face of the closed door. He lifts a hand toward the knob, stops, and turns around to look back at the basement one more time.

And as he moves, one hand reaches over and turns out the light.

"_I need you so now / Come on, let's go now _

_Kick off your shoes / Turn out the light_

_And love me tonight."_

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A/N: Yes, I know the last section of Gibbs' flashbacks changes tense. There's a reason. (Actually, I started writing it in present tense and didn't realize what I was doing until I was about halfway through. It just seemed to _fit_.) But then I realized that this is probably the most powerful memory that we see in the story, and for him it's like reliving what happened, in the moment instead of just remembering it. In that case, the change in tense seems to make a little more sense. Anyway, hope you enjoyed!! (And my apologies to those of you who don't like song fics.)


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